The Moon Is Low Tonight by Michael Tyler

It was Friday, and while there had been many Fridays past and would be many more Fridays future, at the mansion the girls seemed in perpetual mid-meander. Cynthia wandered from the main room to the living room, up the winding stair case and into her quarters, took one look to her right and then swiveled only to return to the main room once more.

  I know this as I followed her in a less than surreptitious manner. Cynthia was a new arrival and an overt tweaker who swore a fine balance of Valium kept her level at all times, and yet something was amiss.

  Beverly was already in her swim suit and walked out to the main pool, towel under one arm and a bottle of whiskey under the other. The sun was long gone and yet the floodlights shone bright enough to convince it was midday and Beverly was damned if she was gonna miss a chance to lie by the pool and endure the stares of the willing and the wishful.

  Denise touched me on the shoulder and greeted me with her standard wide-eyed wonder. She stunned in a strapless black number the Boss had flown in from abroad, and inquired wide eyed and perplexed, “Are my boobs even?”

  Denise was perfection personified. She was also in constant search of someone, anyone, to remind her of this. “You look exquisite … simply stunning.”

  “I’m sure they’re uneven … I might get my doc to have another look at them if …” She wandered off mid-sentence, determined to find someone who would confirm her fear of imminent imperfection.

I had arrived at the mansion a year ago tonight. Fresh faced, blonde, full of southern charm and a lilt to the voice, the Boss was taken by me in an instant. So far I’d resisted the temptation to go under the knife but knew that day would come. At the last party, a guest had slurred that my “titsh … could be a bit more … perky” with a wave of the hand, and as determined as I was, I knew I’d give in at some point, everyone did in the end. ‘Girl next door’ one week, flesh and blood Barbie the next. There was a quiet despair in it all.

  The mansion had been busy since mid-morning, men carrying cables and lights, caterers micro-managing the evening’s edibles, endless assistants overly dramatizing one sweet detail or another. Only the coke stood between me and unnerving ennui, a small bump and my eyes lit up, smile reappeared, a glow to the cheek and a chirp in the nature. The mansion was the ideal environment for such wild and open substance abuse; everyone was on something and as long as you were able to remain pert and alert folks looked the other way.

  At five to the hour, I headed upstairs to change. At first I was determined to dazzle, tonight I would blow a mind or two. Pearls, no, sapphire, no … a bump and a short stride up and down my room and I decided on an approach most utilitarian: simple swim suit, bikini, white. I would save the guests the effort of imagination, ‘Here I am lads, tits and ass and legs for days,’ would be my siren's call. A bump and then down to the ground floor once more to turn heads as I wandered poolside.

  The main room was filling up nicely; the Boss would be pleased as the best and the brightest answered the invitation. Most arrived sans girlfriend or wife and though the boss supplied swimming trunks and gowns for all, for now suits and ties and the odd tuxedo abound.

  Gerald Miller, recent Pulitzer Prize winner, eyed each cheek as I nodded and turned and walked away. Gerald was a regular and one of the few worthy of conversation come the early hours. As widely known for his constitution as his literary prowess, he could lay a tale with ease and wit after imbibing enough alcohol to kill three average men. Gerald was a gentleman. A bit handsy but a gentleman all the same.

  Beverly lay on her stomach poolside, turned her head and waved as she received a massage from Skip Wilson, still a little lean after losing weight to appear in a Portuguese-funded independent biopic as an anorexic autistic artist who painted in a green most subtle. Skip applied more lotion on Beverly’s back and smiled the pearly whites that had dazzled all on the red carpet as he gushed amid photo flash, Oscar held tightly to his side.

  A waiter passed and before I knew it, I held a glass of champagne; a low voice whispered invitation politely refused, a hand brushed my back in compliment of my tan. The party was well underway.

  A producer offered a bump and who was I to refuse? English, mid-separation, much lauded, he was “stricken, simply stricken my dear, stricken to the very core of my being” by the vicious nature of his significant other. “She was always such a sweet-heart, but since the scandal she’s offered up more than the odd claw to strike.” I recalled hearing vague details about the scandal, rumors revolving around a prostitute, a mound of coke and a midget stripper. Apparently it was in all the papers but I was never one to pry, and simply offered my condolences with a comforting hand on the shoulder and mist of the eyes.

  The Boss sauntered by in a deep red dressing gown, girls in tow and variations of ‘the next big thing’ on each flank. He would wander for a while, charm, nod, welcome, encourage, disappear, reappear, walk on water, hug, hold, inspire, reassure, spur, strengthen and repose to his private quarters. He was everywhere and he was nowhere.

  The producer felt like taking a dip and withdrew to change into a bathing suit. I was to “wait right where I was and then proceed to the Jacuzzi.” As the producer departed, I wandered to another waiter, another glass of champagne, a tap on the shoulder and another tale to be told.

  I had a ‘wonderful figure … simply wonderful. Marvelously wonderful.’ He had a belly pouched beneath a deep tan suit, leather loafers and unlit cigar, chewed and relied on for emphasis. Apparently the world was full of ‘narrow-minded queers and simple-minded feminists’, who needed to ‘redirect their psychic energy into the zeitgeist of tomorrow.’ I could trust him, he was a doctor after all. He even gave me his card, Dr. Robert.

  He sweated and I drank as we both observed an impromptu game of Twister on the lawn. There were giggles aplenty and much applause as each participant bent and stretched at each spin of the board. A momentary pause and then a scream as one of the girls reared back at drops of blood on the mat. A prominent actress held her hand to her face, apologized profusely, and then pinched her nose as she beat a hasty retreat.

 The doctor stood to attention. “Too much coke, I fear," he declared. “Eaten up her nasal cavities most likely. Poor thing. That’s why I never touch the stuff. Laudanum’s the thing, trust me, I am a doctor after all.” He patted me on the shoulder and took off after the actress to offer assistance.

  Twister was abandoned and soon forgotten, heads turned toward the pool as a Tony-award-winning singer stole the mic from the Grammy-winning DJ and launched into a drunken accapella ‘Auld Lang Syne’ despite it being mid-July.

  There were men everywhere, the atmosphere awash with the air of the libertine, there was lechery ahead, of that I was certain. Time to retreat, let the new girls prove themselves. I headed toward my quarters with a nod and timid smile at each receptive glare.

  I would place Robert’s card on my nightstand, dim the lights and lay my head to pillow. I would dream of many yesterdays. I would leave the mansion and embark, step forward toward destiny’s call. I would become somebody. I would contact the doctor about this laudanum.